GEORGE O. ‘POP’ HART 


twenty-four selections 


from his work 


EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION 


BY HOLGER CAHILL 


oe 


NEW YORK 
The Downtown Gallery 
1928 


\ 


Yes real singularity we have not made enough 
of yet so that any other one can really know 
it. I say vital singularity is as yet an unknown 
product with us, we who in our habits, dress- 
suit cases, clothes and hats and ways of think- 
ing, walking, making money, talking, having 
simple lines in decorating, in ways of reform- 
ing, all with a metallic clicking like the type- 
writing which is our only way of thinking, 
our way of educating, our way of learning, all 
always the same way of doing, all the way 
down as far as there is any way down inside 
to us. We all are the same all through us, we 
never have it to be free inside us. No brother 
singulars, it is sad here for us, there is no place 
in an adolescent world for anything eccentric 
like us, machine making does not turn out 
queer things like us, they can never make a 
world to let us be free each one inside us. 


GERTRUDE STEIN 


—The -Making of Americans 


GEORGE O. ‘POP’ HART 


S it your idea then, Pop, thata picture should tell a story? 

A picture can tell a story if you want it to. That’s one 

of the things a picture can do very well. Most of the big 

boys told stories in their pictures. A lot of the world’s best 
art is made that way. 

You mean religious art? 

Sure. Giotto, Tintoretto, El Greco, and a lot of others 
who didn’t do religious stuff so much, like Velasquez, 
Goya, and some pretty big modern men. Renoir is one. 
The thing is that when you have people in a picture folks 
always read a story into it. People have always interested 
me most. Stories are not in my line, but I have to have 
color and movement and I find it among crowds of peo- 
ple. Other artists find what they want in bare buildings, 
in still life, in flowers, and things like that. I never did 
think much of still life stuff, flower pots and things. Flow- 
ers look best where they grow. There’s thousands of 
square yards of that stuff done every year. Many painters 
will use the same pot and the same piece of cloth for a 
dozen pictures. I know of one who sold the pots too. 

Passion is the moving force of art. Pop Hart has a pas- 
sion for people. He loves people and he loves a good joke, 
even when the joke is on him. His interest in the human 


Lz] 


incident might seem to give many of his water colors and 
prints a merely occasional or episodic value. This is not 
so. His pictures have no literary connotations. They are 
to be read at their face value and not through any associa- 
tions they may have. In fact Hart may be called the most 
unliterary of artists. He is not a literary man. He cannot 
talk about the many countries he has visited. But when 
he sits down to make pictures he is those countries. 

Pop Hart has made pictures of many countries. The 
most important things in life to him are making pictures 
and wandering. Through all his wanderings he has made 
pictures, and he has found his way to what he wants to 
do, surely, without encouragement of any kind. He was 
fifty years old before his work had any sort of showing. 
The public recognition of his work is a matter of the last 
five or six years. It seems a long time to wait, when we re- 
member that Hart was born in Cairo, IIL, in 1868. Recog- 
nition has been slow coming to Hart because he has never 
fitted very well into our standardized American civiliza- 
tion. He is of the originals whose vital singularity finds 
scant room in our adolescent world. He does not show us 
life as we are used to seeing it depicted. He compels us to 
see it anew. Making us do that takes time, for we hate to 
change our old ways of seeing things. And so it comes 
about that it has taken us nearly forty years to see that 
Pop Hart’s vision of this roughneck world is profoundly 
true and beautiful. 

Hart’s career as an artist and wanderer began when his 
father tried to knock art out of his head and to turn him 
into a factory hand. 


[2] 


Thad been making drawings ever since I was a kid, Pop 
says. I didn’t have any training, but it was the best fun I 
knew of, and so I made drawings all over the place when- 
ever I had a chance. My father decided that a chap like 
me with a good appetite and a natural dislike for work 
ought to be put into harness early. He owned a glue fac- 
tory, and to start me in the business he put me to work 
tending glue kettles. The kettles were new and he was 
very proud of them. He showed me how to look after the 
kettles, and gave me a stern warning to watch them care- 
fully, for they might explode pretty easy. Then he left 
me. I was more interested in making pictures than in 
making glue, and as soon as my father had gone I took a 
marking brush and began drawing landscapes on the 
walls. I forgot all about the kettles. They blew up and I 
had to blow out pronto after that. The explosion shot glue 
all over the place. It spoiled my wall decorations and 
made me feel very bad. My father came running when he 
heard the sound of the explosion. I tried to tell him a sad 
story about my ruined pictures, but that wasn’t what was 
worrying him. He didn’t think much of my art. We had 
a bitter discussion about it. The only thing we decided 
was that I would begin looking for a new boarding house 
then and there. 

A few days later I found myself on the New York 
water front, dead broke and still looking for that board- 
ing house. I met some other chaps there and they were 
looking for boarding houses too. A cattle boat bound for 
London accepted my services for a free passage. It was 
worse than tending glue kettles and no chance to make 


Ez] 


pictures. London was tough. I couldn’t find any boarding 
houses there, so I stowed away to get back to New York. 
When I got back they were advertising “go west, young 
man.” I accepted the invitation and rode the bumpers to 
Chicago, and got there with an empty stomach but with a 
heart full of hope. By that time I had been doing a lot of 
drawing, and I answered an ad in a Chicago paper for a 
painter of political campaign pictures. I got a job, three 
dollars a day, four portraits daily. My boss knew nothing 
about art, but his customers did, and all my work was re- 
turned unpaid for. I resigned, as requested, and the boss 
paid me my dough, which I will say was the easiest 
money I ever made. 

That money, and some I picked up painting signs, 
lasted me a couple of months while I went to the Chicago 
Art Institute to study. I thought there were still a few 
things for me to learn about being an artist, so I bought 
myself a velvet coat with big pearl buttons, a flowing tie, 
and a broad-brimmed hat. I grew a little Van Dyke beard. 
Things went along swell till my money gave out and I 
had to go back to painting signs. The Mississippi country 
interested me a lot at that time, and so I hit out from Chi 
for St. Louis, and then for Memphis. In Memphis I 
painted signs long enough to save up money for a house 
boat, and then I floated down the river to New Orleans. 
The trip took ten weeks, and I lived the high old life as 
ducks were plentiful. 

In New Orleans I sold the house boat and went to 
work. I saved $160 on that job and took a third class pas- 
sage to Naples for $26. That was in rgoo. I met one of 


[4] 


Cook’s guides in Naples and went around with him. At 
night I went to a sailors’ mission. It cost me just eight dol- 
lars for all the time I was in Naples, and I saw a lot of art 
galleries. For the first time I felt that I was getting down 
to real art. From Naples I took a return trip to Alexan- 
dria, Egypt. Going over I painted portraits of the captain, 
the engineer, and some of the sailors and we all had a 
good time. From Alexandria I went to Cairo and up the 
Nile to Luxor. I loafed around there and met some Arab 
guides, and lived with them in the native quarters. It was 
cheap and they were swell fellows. Part of the time I lived 
on a barge in the Nile. Maspero, the famous Frenchman 
who did a lot of digging around there, gave me a pass to 
go in and make pictures of the excavations. I stayed there 
for several months and made a lot of drawings of the old 
Egyptian temples. 

When I got back to the United States I went around 
painting signs. But I couldn’t shake the old wanderlust. 
About that time I got a hankering for the South Seas. I 
had heard what a great life it was out there. In 1903 I was 
in Frisco headed for Tahiti. My money had given out so 
I looked around for a job sign painting. I got a job and 
next morning went to work. A young chap was turned 
over to me as a helper. We lifted our paint kit into a 
wagon and drove to a job on a six story building. When 
we were on the roof putting on our overalls I asked my 
buddy how long he had been in the business. He said this 
was his first day, and added that his name was Joe Ducks, 
and that he liked color. Then I leaned over the wall and 
pointed to the hitch in the rope that holds up the scaffold. 


[5] 


Says I, can you make a hitch like that. Sure, he says. 
When I tried to show him how to work the guy line he 
said there was nothing to it and he’d been up on much 
higher places on the Palisades. Well, we got started. I tied 
off my side and then looked at him. My heart seemed to 
stop beating. His end of the scaffold was slowly sinking. 
He hadn’t made the tie properly and the scaffold was slip- 
ping down and down. I yelled to him to grab the ropes 
and he did. He hung on till I came over on my hands and 
knees as the scaffold was slippery with spilled paint. I got 
to the ropes and pulled up till the scaffold was level again 
and tied off securely. Then we looked down. Such a 
splash of color I never saw. Awnings, sidewalks, and even 
a street car were covered with paint. A crowd of people 
was down there looking up, a lot of painted faces and fists 
all turning up to us. It made me nervous. My helper was 
the first to speak. Old man, he said, that’s a real Impres- 
sionist painting. 

Then we beat it. We climbed the ropes over the roof, 
and went down the back stairway to an alley. My helper 
headed for the freight yards to catch a train for New 
York, where, by the way, he later got a picture into the 
Academy. I never went back to the sign shop, but picked 
up a few dollars in an engraving shop as a stake for Ta- 


hiti. I kidded a steamship company into giving me free — 


fare. Showed ’em some water colors I made in Egypt and 
told ’em I'd paint pictures of Tahiti that would bring on 


the tourists in big gangs. I landed in Tahiti with five dol- — 


lars in my pocket. It sure was a great place. The girls were 


[ 6 ] 


fine. I flirted with a lot of them, and went to native festi- 
vals whenever I got the chance. 

In 1904 I left Tahiti for Samoa. Nearly said goodbye to 
art there. Got in with a chief’s daughter. Fellow gets kind 
of lonely wandering around far away from home. Her 
father thought I was all right. He took me around and 
showed me a cocoanut grove of 2,000 trees which he said 
would be mine when I married the girl. Also showed me 
where my house was to be built. Everything was hunky 
dory. To make things more interesting I had a deadly 
rival, a chief’s son from another village. Kept me busy 
dodging that guy. Then they had a feast to celebrate our 
betrothal. I never saw such a bunch of relations in my life. 
They were eating up the place. Most of them got boiled 
to the eyes. I got a little boiled myself and went out in the 
moonlight to look at that cocoanut grove. I could see my- 
self climbing those trees for the rest of my life trying to 
keep that bunch of relations in grub and drinks. That 
wouldn’t leave me much time for making pictures. The 
idea made me kind of sad and I walked down the shore 
of Pago Pago bay, thinking about it. As I walked along I 
saw a schooner in the harbor. Right then I made up my 
mind to beat it. I swam out to the boat and took passage 
for Honolulu. That saved me a lot of matrimonial 
trouble. I just wanted to make pictures anyway. 

Pop Hart’s pictures of the South Seas, and those he 
later made in the Caribbean, have not the sentimental 
concern with the exotic which one finds in the work of 
such artists as Gauguin. Hart never thought of the Tahi- 
tians as exotic. To him they were just folks, and it would 


iy a 


never have occurred to him that they would look well in 
the stage setting get-up which Delacroix and Gauguin 
and the romantics loved so well. Hart may be classified as 
a romantic, but his romanticism has to do with his meth- 
od of working rather than with the subjects he selects. 
Like the romantics Hart is not interested primarily in 
architecture. He does not conceive form in architectural 
terms. He uses light and dark tones as a unifying element 
in his pictures, a design of light and shadow holding to- 
gether compositions which otherwise might seem disor- 
derly. One sees his method clearly in such plates as “Dias 
de Fiesta.” Fine use of the method appears in this plate 
which Hart rightly considers one of his masterpieces. The 
design in “Dias de Fiesta” is beautifully worked out. The 
spatial intervals are right, and so are the tone relations. 
Not all his plates are as fine as “Dias de Fiesta.” Some 
of them have a tendency to run too soon to black. This is 
the weakness of too much strength, one of the pitfalls of 
this way of working. Hart sometimes falls into it, but not 
often. The self-portrait, “Happy Days,” is a good thing 
achieved with very simple means through tone contrasts 
which make the head and the background into a well- 
knit design. This portrait shows where Hart runs afoul of 
the academically-minded. That is, in his lack of technique 
as understood in the academic sense. He does what he sets 
out to do, but he does not work as an academically trained 
man would work. The careless mastery of the drawing 
would exasperate the academician, ancient or modern, 
and he would object to the fact that “Happy Days” has 
the quality of painting rather than of etching. But this 


[8] 


painter-like quality is exactly what Hart has been trying 
to get in his prints. 

There is superb unity in Hart’s work at its best. It is not 
so much a unity of organization as a unity of mood. There 
is an identification between the artist and what he finds to 
express in the world around him which gives him a sure 
insight into what is significant for his purposes. Hart’s 
method of working and this sense of his identity with 
everything existing in the world give the personal quality 
to his work, and relate him to one of the great artists of 
the nineteenth century, Daumier. There is no doubt that 
Daumier has influenced Hart, but then Daumier has in- 
fluenced every artist of any importance since his time. In 
one way we may say that Hart is the master of Daumier, 
the illustrator, and that is in his conception of caricature. 
The word, caricature, is not a good one to use in connec- 
tion with Daumier or Hart. The word has too many asso- 
ciations which throw our ideas out of focus when we try 
to discover what these artists do. Better to say the accent- 
uations and distortions which these artists use to give 
their figures a feeling of enhanced humanity and a more 
convincing reality than they have in nature. Daumier had 
a godlike audacity in remaking people, distorting them 
into beings more real, more forceful, and more human. 
Hart’s caricature, like Daumier’s, enhances the human 
reality of his subjects. He is less mordant than Daumier 
and more innocent in his humor. Hart’s humor has no 
acid in it, and he has no axes to grind. 

But to go on with Pop Hart’s story— I made out 
pretty well in Honolulu painting outdoor signs. Bought a 


[9] 


piece of dirt there and built a shack where I used to enter- 
tain the Kanakas. We had dances and played our guitars 
and ukuleles on the porch of my shack every evening. I 
played the bones for them and they fell for them hard. 

In 1905 I came back to America, painted a few por- 
traits, and then went on to Havana where I did sign 
painting for a while. From there I went to Copenhagen 
to meet an artist friend who had made a date with me 
while I was in Cuba. We went to Iceland together. After 
an eight day sail from Copenhagen we landed on the east 
coast of Iceland and then rode across country to Reyk- 
javik. 

Some jump, Pop! Tahiti to Iceland. You like the far 
away countries? 

Oh, I like ’em all right if they’re hot countries. No cold 
countries for mine. It isn’t so cold in Iceland, though I 
will say they have lots of snow there in the winter time. 
Sitting up there among the snowdrifts makes you stop 
and think it over. What if a fellow was to die way up 
there so far away from home? There wouldn’t be any of 
your friends there to come and view you. I decided right 
then to go to Paris where there were lots of fellows I 
knew. 

In Paris I saw the Louvre and the Luxembourg. They 
sure hit me hard. I used to hang around them for days. I 
saw the modern galleries too, but I didn’t understand 
modern art at first. It didn’t take me long to fall for it. I 
met some artist friends who had been connected with the 
modern movement. They told me a lot of things and I 
believed I was on the right track. In the summer of 1907 


[ 10 ] 


I studied for about three months at the Julien Academy. 
That experience showed me that art schools are no places 
for an artist. I quit the Julien Academy and went out 
along the Seine and the Oise to paint by myself. I painted 
two or three landscapes around Merlon. Then I went to 
Estaple and did some fishing town stuff. When I got back 
to Paris the jury for the Carnegie International show was 
selecting pictures. An artist friend of mine who had lived 
in Paris for many years, and who was considered a top- 
notch painter, was sending some pictures. That gave me 
the idea to send some of my landscapes. My artist friend 
didn’t think much of my pictures, but I thought I might 
as well try. Perhaps the jury might find some merit in 
them. I sent two, and a few days later I found a letter un- 
der my door in French, saying that one of my pictures 
had been accepted and please call for the other one. My 
artist friend had all his pictures turned down. Right there 
I began to feel like a real artist. 

Two months later I got back to America. I was sure 
there'd be a band at the battery to meet an artist like me, 
the way they met Lindbergh. The band didn’t show up. 
Two weeks later I was glad to get a job at two dollars a 
day mixing paint in a scenic studio for the real masters to 
slam on the drops. 

My main object in life at that time was to get away 
from landlords. I wanted to have a little piece of dirt of 
my own. My shack in Honolulu was still unsold. Prop- 
erty values in Honolulu had gone up since I was there so 
I had an agent sell my place. The money I got was 
enough to buy a piece of ground in Coytesville, back of 


LJ 


the Palisades. With second hand lumber I built a “ea 
and that has been my headquarters ever since. 

From 1907 to 1912 I painted signs in amusement parks, 
mostly around New York and New Jersey. I could use 
my own stuff on those eye-catchers without being told 
what to do by any boss sign painter. It was fun. I made a 
lot of drawings, too, and did some painting and water 
color sketching on Sundays. About that time I came to 
the conclusion that if a man has any ideas to express he 
can express them just as well with water color on a piece 
of paper as he can with oil paint on a big canvas in a gold 
frame, the way you see them at the exhibitions. I’ve 
painted about twenty oils, all told, but I think you can say 
as much in water color. 

Hart’s earliest water colors show the artist’s struggle 
with the medium. They are sentimental landscapes, “The 
Brook” (1909), for instance. A few years later Hart has 
become more knowing in his use of water color. While it 
is true that he has not always come through with the ob- 
jective record of what he has seen, yet we feel his power in 
the use of the medium, and the carefree mastery of his 
drawing, in which seemingly random notations contrib- 
ute inevitably to the effect of the whole. “Natives Wash- 
ing Clothes” has distinction of design and breadth of 
treatment. In this, and a number of water colors made in 
the early 1920’s, we see that Hart has progressed from the 
sentimental to the dramatic. In “The Hudson” there is 
poetic treatment of the drama of space; in “The Missis- 
sippi” it is the drama of movement. Hart’s eye for the sig- 
nificant detail, his remarkably suggestive drawing and 


[ 12 ] 


breadth of treatment are seen in water colors like “Mother 
and Child,” “Mule Car,” and “Matching and Weighing 
the Birds,” and drawings like “The Jury,” and “The 


Road to Oaxaca.” 
In his latest phase Hart is becoming less dramatic, and 


a kind of effortless beauty enters his work. One sees the 
transition in “Landscape with Goats” (1926). “Market 
Place, Santo Domingo” is of this type. It has all the 
rich freedom of the water color medium. Similar is 
“Merry Go Round,” which with all its movement has 
something of an Oriental feeling, and “Pack Horses” 
and “Riding Horses,” with their fine grouping and 
potent color. “The Market Fountain” (1927), one of 
Hart’s latest works, has very little of his earlier dramatic 
quality. It is calm and joyful, filled with light and 
warmth. 

Hart does not stand still. He progresses steadily in his 
knowledge of his mediums and in his ability to free him- 
self from the economic treadmill which has always inter- 
fered with his work. 

In 1912, he says, I graduated from sign painting and 
began working in movie studios at Fort Lee, painting 
sets. I even did some sculpture on some of the sets when 
that was necessary. That movie job was my ace in the hole 
until 1920. ’'d work all summer and in the fall I'd quit 
my job and go to the West Indies. In the spring I’d be 
back again. One winter I went to New Orleans, and an- 
other time I went to Paraguay. I was always looking for 
another place like Tahiti. I did some pretty good draw- 
ings during those years. “Native Baptism, Trinidad” 


[ 13 ] 


(1917) was one I liked. In New Orleans I made the 
drawing for the lithograph, “Springtime, New Orleans,” 
which won a prize at the Sesqui in Philadelphia. 

In 1921 I had my piece of land and my shack in Coytes- 
ville all paid for. Then I took a whack at doing my own 
work. It was the first time in my life that I got a chance to 
do what I wanted to do for any length of time. I was over 
fifty years old. Pretty near time I settled down to my life 
work. Since 1921 I’ve been working at my own stuff, and 
I haven’t painted any signs or movie sets. That year I 
started to make prints. I had a stack of drawings going 
back twenty-five years or more. Some of my artist friends 
suggested that I make them into etchings and litho- 
graphs. I knew nothing about these mediums, but as one 
artist has said, if you can sketch you can etch, so I went to 
it. I sharpened a file down to a point and began working 
on a piece of zinc given me by a lithographer friend. 

My first plates were “Siesta,” “Jack and Jill” and “Toil- 
ers,” all made in 1921. They are all dry points done in 
pure line on zinc. I got a kick out of those plates but they 
didn’t satisfy me. I wanted to get a more painterlike qual- 
ity, to get tones like those of water colors and paintings. 
Then I tried making a sandpaper ground on the zinc 
plate. This gave me some interesting tones. “Chicken 
Vendor,” and “Boats and Natives,” done in 1923-24, look 
as if they had an etched ground, but they were done with 
sandpaper and dry point. These two plates were my first 
attempts to get tones. They created quite an interest in 
the graphic world. No one knew just how they had been 


[ 14 ] 


done. Many of my artist friends thought I had done them 
with aquatint. 

I started making lithographs at the same time. In 1924 
I made my first museum sale. This was a lithograph, 
“Voodoo Dance,” which was shown at the Winter Acad- 
emy and bought by the Metropolitan Museum. Since 
then the Metropolitan has bought thirty of my prints and 
a water color. 

Talking with the artists made me feel that I ought to 
tackle some work with acid. I went to the Public Library 
in New York and looked over some books on etching. 
“Market Stand” (1924) was the first plate I tackled with 
an etched ground. I made about ten plates that year, and 
was elected to the Brooklyn Society of Etchers. In 1925 I 
was elected president of the Society, and was re-elected 
the next year. But I guess official positions are not for me. 
I’m not fond enough of tea and cake. Those artists talking 
art with a big “A” with a hunk of cake in their hand get 
my goat. 

My first etched plates were done with soft ground. My 
next experience was with aquatint. The first plate of this 
kind was “Native Baptism, Trinidad,” which I did from 
a drawing I made in 1917. Soft ground and aquatint give 
me the kind of painterlike effects I want to get. I’ve 
worked a good deal in this way and made about forty 
plates since then. I’ve always been trying for different ef- 
fects, sometimes using a dust rosin ground and sometimes 
a liquid ground. Take a plate like “Dance of the Cen- 
taurs,” which was chosen by the Bibliothéque Nationale 
in Paris as one of my best plates. It is done with soft 


[ 15 ] 


ground and aquatint, using both a dust rosin and a liquid 
ground. Or a plate like “Dias de Fiesta,” which is also 
done with soft ground and aquatint. I made two plates of 
that print. The first plate is probably my masterpiece. I’ve 
also done a little work in colored lithography and colored 
etching. Couldn’t afford to have the plates printed in 
color so I colored them by hand. I’ve made a few mono- 
types too. 

In 1926 I decided to take some time off and I went to 
Mexico on a sketching trip. Dear old Mexico is the Mecca 
of them all for me. I made a lot of water colors and draw- 
ings, mostly in Oaxaca. There’s certainly life and color 
down there for an artist. 

Pop Hart has a magnificent appetite for life in a time 
when art has begun to have a weak stomach. He is in love 
with life, Easter parades, baptisms, weddings, markets 
and fairs and festivals. They are his people these Gargan- 
tuan spectators of cock-fights, mountainous women ar- 
ranging their hair smoking pipes gossiping, people bar- 
gaining dancing making love adding the color and bulk 
of their bodies to the architecture of a Mexican or West 
Indian market scene, and just beyond the mountains or 
the sea—the richness of life as it moves about its daily 
business, men women animals food earth and sky. 

The individuality of an artist is shown not only in his 
manner of working, but also in what he finds to express 
in the world about him. Pop Hart finds the humor and 
the beauty of everyday life. He says in his pictures that 
we're a pretty rough lot if you want to think so, but at 
bottom we're a pretty swell lot. He reinstates the human 


[ 16 ] 


episode in art. He can make us love people whom our 
hypercivilized disgusts have made alien to us. Pop Hart 
has no hypercivilized disgusts. He likes people and he 
likes to make pictures of them. The fact that people like 
the pictures he makes is just that much to the good. 

The funny part of it is I didn’t start to make pictures to 
sell. I had my shack and a little money saved, and I 
thought Id have a good time. I just wanted to find out 
what effects I could get working in different ways. The 
fact that my etchings and lithographs sold surprised me. 
The sale of my water colors surprised me too. I wasn’t 
used to it. Making drawings is the best fun there is. Sure 
it’s fine if they sell. Sort of surprises you though. It did 
me. But I’m glad folks like the things I do when I’m hav- 
ing a good time. It shows they’re with me. 


Peg 4 


CATALOGUE OF PRINTS 


DrypoInt oN ZINC 


1 Svesta 1921 
H. 2%; w. 6 inches 

2 Jack and Jill 1921 
H. 344; w. 7% inches 

3 The Toilers 1921 
H. 4%; w. 6% inches 

4 Mother and Child 1922 
H. 4%; w. 5% inches 

5 Water Carrier 1923 
H. 8; w. 9% inches 

6 ‘Bringing Goats to Market ‘#1024 


H.7%4; w.9% inches 


DryporInt ON CoppER 


7 Tahiti Girls 1923 
H. 344; w. 5% inches 
8 «Awaiting Boat’s Return 1923 
H. 4%; w. 6% inches 
9 Boys and ‘Donkeys 1924 
H. 6%; w. 9 inches 
10 Nude Study 1925 
H. 6%; w.9% inches 
11 Omar Khayyam 1925 
H. 7; w. 10% inches 
12 Bathers 1925 


H. 9%; w. 7% inches 


[ 19 | 


DrypoInt AND SANDPAPER 
13 €arly Morning —Market 
H. 7%; w. 10% inches 
14 Jersey Hills — 
H. 7; w. 11% inches 
15 Chicken Vendor, Trinidad 
H.9%4; w. 6% inches 


16 Campfire 
H. 6; w. g inches 


DrypoInt, SANDPAPER AND ROULETTE 


17 ~—Mammy 
H. 944; w. 7% inches 


18 Shopkeeper’s Daughter 
H. 9%; w. 7% inches 


19 Boats and Natives 
H. 714; w. 10% inches 


Drypoint AND AQUATINT 


20 Native Baptism, Trinidad 
H. 6%; w. 9% inches 


Drypoint AND Sort GRouND 


21 Landscape, Santo Domingo, No. 1 
H. 6; w. 8% inches 


[ 20 ] 


1923 
1923 
1923 


1924 


1924 
1924 


1924 


1924 


1925 


ETCHING 


22 Working People 1925 
H. 6%; w. 9% inches 

23 Happy Days (Self Portrait) 1925 
H. 1044; w. 8% inches 

24 Poultry .~Man (small plate) 1925 
H.5%; w. 64 inches 

25 Personal Christmas (ard 1925 
H. 6; w. 4%4 inches 

26 Lovers of Nature 1925 


H. 74; w. 12% inches 


ETCHING AND AQUATINT 


27 Concert Soloist 1925 
H.7%4; w. 9% inches 

28 Excursion ‘Boat 1926 
H. 10%; w. 13% inches 

29 The Commuter 1926 


H. 7; w. 8% inches 


EtTcHING AND Sort GROUND 


30 Salutations, Senor 1926 
H. 7%; w. 6% inches 


EtTcHING AND SAND PAPER 


31 Tahiti Washwomen 1925 
H. 7%; w. 10% inches 


[ 2x ] 


Sort Grounp ETcHING 


32 Picnic Party 1925 
H. 8%; w. 13% inches 

33 The Old Story 1925 
H.5'4; w.7% inches 

34 Orizaba, Mexico : 1925 
H. 8%; w. 12% inches 

35 Child with Stage Ambitions 1925 
H. 7%; w. 8% inches 

36 —Mamma’s Darling 1926 


H. 5%; w. 4% inches 


Sort Grounp ETcHING AND SANDPAPER 


37 «Market Stand, Santo ‘Domingo 1924 
H. 9%; w. 124 inches 


Sort Grounp ErcHinc AND Monotype 
38 The Brook 1926 


H. 12; w. 9 inches 


AQUATINT 
39 The Hostess 1924 
H. 7; w. 8% inches 
40 ‘Bathing ‘Beach 1925 
H. 7%; w. 113% inches . 
41 Virginia Reel, Amusement Park 1926 


H.54; w.8% inches 


[ 22 ] 


AQUATINT AND Sort GRouND 


42 Landscape, Santo Domingo, No. 2 1926 
H. 7%; w. 10% inches 

43 Poultry Man (large plate) 1926 
H. 10%; w. 1244 inches 

44 Dias de Fiesta, No. 1 1926 
H. 7%; w. 10% inches 

45 ‘Dias de Fiesta, No. 2 1926 
H.7%; w.9\ inches 

46 ~Market Plaza, Mexico 1926 
H. 9%; w. 124% inches 

47 Pig Market, .Mexico 1926 
H. 8%; w. 12% inches 

48 Matinee 1926 
H. 5%; w. 8 inches 

49 ‘Broadcasting Station 1926 
H. 7; w. 9 inches 

50 Dance of Centaurs 1926 
H. 12%; w.9 inches 

51 Sea Waves 1926 
H. 10; w. 8 inches 

52 Matching and Weighing the Birds 1928 
H. 8%; w. 12% inches 

53 ‘Riding Academy 1928 
H. 8%; w. 10% inches 

54 The Corral 1928 
H. 8; w. 1014 inches 

55 Nude Negress 1922 
H. 8%; w. 6% inches 

56 Lunch Hour 1922 
H. 444; w. 9 inches 

57 Cabin Boy | 1922 
H. 9; w. 6% inches 

58 Cockfight, Santo Domingo 1923 
H. 7; w. 12% inches 

59 Native Laundress 1923 


H. 7; w. 11 inches 


Lad 


LITHOGRAPHS 


60 Cup of Tea 
H. 9%; w. 7% inches 

61 -Atlantic (ity 
H. 7%; w. 8% inches 

62 The Rainbow 
H. 9; w. 13% inches 

63 Haiti Market 
H. 7%; w. 12% inches 

64 —Market Place, Santiago 
H.5%; w. 8% inches 

65 Moonlight in the Jungle 
H. 8; w.9% inches 

66 The Gallery 
H.5; w.9% inches 

67 Voodoo ‘Dance 
H. 8; w. 6% inches 

68 Gamblers 
H. 6%; w. 9g inches 

69 Springtime, New Orleans 
H. 94; w. 12% inches 

70 Mule Car 
H. 9%; w. 13 inches 

71 The Corral 
H. 1214; w. 17 inches 

72 The Champion (for book only) 
H. 8; w. 5% inches 

73, Winter in Coytesville 
H. 7%; w. 9 inches 

74 Sunday Picnic on Hudson 
H. 5%; w. 7% inches 

75 Cockfight, Santo Domingo 
H. 744; w. 12% inches 

76 Market Place, Santiago 
H.5%; w. 8% inches 

77 Gamblers 
H. 64; w. 9 inches 


[ 24 ] 


1923 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1924 
1925 
1925 
1928 
1928 
1923 
1923 
1923 
1924 


1924 


LITHOGRAPHS (HAND-COLORED ) 


78 The Corral 1928 
H. 1214; w. 1614 inches 


PHoto-LiTHOGRAPHS 
79 The Jury 1927 
H. 10%; w. 15 inches 


80 The Hero 1927 


H. 12; w. 16% inches 


81 Contentment 1927 
H. 10%; w. 13 inches 
82 Juanita, the Indian Princess 1927 


H. 15; w. 10% inches 


Among the museums which own collections of Hart prints and water 
colors are the Metropolitan Museum, the Newark Museum, the Brook- 
lyn Museum, the Smithsonian in Washington, the Chicago Art Institute, 
the Los Angeles Museum, the Cleveland Museum, the Cincinnati Mu- 
seum, the Memorial Gallery in Rochester, the South Kensington and the 
British Museums in London. Among libraries which have collections of 
Hart prints are the New York Public Library, the Newark Public Li- 
brary, and the Bibliothéque Nationale in Paris. Most of the well-known 
private collections in America have a number of Hart water colors and 
prints. Arthur F. Egner, vice-president of the Newark Museum, tops the 
list of private collectors of Hart’s work. He owns more than fifty water 


colors, and a complete file of the prints. 


[ 25 ] 


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Water. Color in the Collection ur Mia 


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